


The Still-Wet Ink of Our Convictions

by misura



Category: A Place of Greater Safety - Hilary Mantel
Genre: M/M, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Robespierre woke to the sound of Camille's voice, telling him not to move.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Still-Wet Ink of Our Convictions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alasse_Irena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_Irena/gifts).



Robespierre woke to the sound of Camille's voice, telling him not to move; he stilled, wondering what harm he had done by moving already, and then opened his eyes to see his left arm and parts of his shoulder covered in familiar hand-writing.

"I'm working on the bit on your shoulder," Camille said.

He was seated at his desk, writing - or rather, Robespierre corrected himself, _copying_.

"You could not have found an empty sheet of paper sooner?" The writings of the Revolution are on my skin, he told himself. _Camille's_ writing.

Rationally, it seemed to Robespierre to be a rather impractical thing for Camille to have done. On another level, though, he felt touched. It was just like Camille, really, to not pause for a moment and think things through.

"They're a bit rare around here," Camille said, his sweeping gesture covering the whole of the room, where nearly every available flat surface and a few less flat ones were covered by paper in one shape or another: books, pamphlets, newspapers, drafts.

Somewhere, Robespierre knew, there was the draft of the speech he had brought with him last night. The only thing that would keep it from being entirely impossible to find again was the fact that it would be in his own hand-writing, rather than Camille's.

"I have work I need to do," Robespierre said. "People I need to talk to."

"If you move before I'm done, I'll probably be very unhappy with you for a while," Camille said, and Robespierre wondered, what kind of threat is that?

"Your happiness is less important than the people's." He did not add: to me. "Really, Camille, do you ever stop to consider the consequences of your actions?"

Camille sighed. "Perhaps I wanted to enjoy the pleasure of your company a little while longer. Although, really, I can't imagine why right now."

"You are very foolish sometimes," Robespierre suggested. It was a slightly harsh but mostly fair judgment, he felt; Camille could be brilliant, but occasionally, he missed things.

"So it has been said, mostly by my enemies and other people no longer here," Camille said. "Incidentally, this would all go much quicker if you didn't insist on berating me."

"I'm not berating you. I'm explaining why I can't stay here."

"You'll want to take your draft along when you leave here, I expect."

Robespierre thought, really, Camille, are you going to try to blackmail me with my speech? Threaten to keep it hidden unless I comply with your wishes? "Yes," he said.

"Here." Camille tossed a sheet at him. "I made some suggestions. You can read them while I finish."

Robespierre reached for the paper with his right arm, the one not covered in ink. "Thank you. I have an appointment at nine - will you be done in time for me to keep it?"

"Without even the smallest shred of doubt, provided you let me work in peace."

Robespierre craned his neck, trying to read. "What is it, anyway? Another pamphlet? An article for your newspaper?"

"I expect you'll find out eventually," Camille said. "Why spoil the surprise?"

Robespierre considered saying, I don't like surprises, and you do imprudent things every now and then, Camille; won't you at least let me attempt to protect you from yourself? but it would be pointless, of course - Camille's one enemy Robespierre cannot protect him from is Camille himself. It has always been so; Robespierre cannot see how it could ever be different.

"I will bring along some empty sheets of paper next time," he said, instead opting for something practical, something well within his capabilities. "They'll be in my coat; you can get them from there."

"I might not be able to find them in the dark," Camille said.

If it's so dark, Robespierre thought, how would you be able to write? "As long as you are aware I may not be able to indulge you like again in the future."

"Well, who of us knows what will happen in the future, anyway?" Camille asked.


End file.
